


15 First Dates (With a Vengeance)

by persnickett



Series: Bad Habits Die Hard [5]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Domestic, First Date, First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever else he might be, Matt wasn’t stupid. This was a <i>date</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15 First Dates (With a Vengeance)

 

ONE

 _step1: cut a hole in a box_

 

At first, Matt hated the idea. It was stupid and old fashioned and awkward and weird, and he wasn’t at all sure John remembered that Matt wasn’t actually a woman. Whatever else he might be, Matt wasn’t stupid. This was a _date_.

 

But as he got the time to get used to it, the idea of a few more hours to settle into to this didn’t seem half bad. Because somehow, after two weeks of tortuous teasing, and not being able to think about anything else but getting deeply and eagerly into John McClane’s pants, he’d somehow managed to do a total one-eighty and end up a complete nervous wreck. Trainwreck. Shipwreck even...possibly involving a massive spill of crude oil. Because _disaster_ was the only word Matt could think of to describe himself right now.

 

Matt had tried – and failed – three times now to button his shirt correctly before he had to give up and go to the mirror. And really, he had been hoping to avoid that, because he wasn’t pleased with what he saw there at all. His new haircut was – well okay, it was the same one he’d always had, just a trim really, but suddenly everything about it seemed choppy and  impossible to comb straight. He had of course managed to execute the highly sophisticated cut-yourself-shaving move like a natural, which he wasn’t even sure was a good idea in the first place. He looked way too young with a close shave.

 

And to put the proverbial cherry on top, the mirror got the very last laugh when Matt reluctantly looked himself over and identified the reason for all the shirt and comb and razor fail: his hands were actually shaking. Awesome.

 

Seriously, though, who could blame him? As if it wasn’t crazy enough already to be _dating_ John friggin’ McClane…these past two weeks had been…well…

 

TWO

 _pretty sneaky, sis_

 

 Jim put the phone down and tried to pull himself together before Lucy could get back and see what he was doing. He had always suspected it was the asshole from the Fourth of July she was constantly texting. What he hadn’t been expecting in a million years, though, was anything like [this.](http://a.imageshack.us/img713/438/doc42crop.jpg)  
 

THREE

  _just the FAQs, man_

 __

 [](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003q1be/)

 

FOUR

 _h4x0rz_

 __

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003sy63/)

 

FIVE

 _if you can’t take the Heat…_

 

It was torture. That’s all. These two weeks were nothing short of pure innuendo-laden, fondling-filled, unrepentant torture tactics. 

 

And Matt was also beginning to suspect McClane had some kind of cooking fetish. Because, he was developing a rather predictable habit of ambushing Matt when he had his back turned and his hands busy doing shit in the kitchen.

 

It started out pretty subtle; brief graze of fingers at the small of his back when he was leaning over a sink full of soapy dinner dishes.

 

“Need a hand?” John would say, and he was already two feet away grabbing a dish towel by the time Matt could register the conveniently up-angled touch that just happened to bring his t-shirt up with the motion of John’s hand. So that the casual little movement scored a second of direct contact with Matt’s skin and sent delayed adrenaline jags sparking up his spine like static electricity.

 

Or a warm, calloused palm landing on the back of his neck – never for long enough – when Matt was chopping carrots.

 

“Salad again, hmm?” John would ask, voice pitched low, and rubbing his thumb in little circles before saying something inane like “Trying to make a rabbit outta me?” then walking right on through the kitchen like he wasn’t totally aware he’d just sent warm little spirals of sensation curling down from the place where his hand had been all the way to the bottom of Matt’s stomach.

 

And Matt wasn’t that dense. He knew what rabbits were famous for. So that’s how it was gonna be.

 

But the clock was ticking down to game day and John was starting to ramp it up, now. Like the time Matt was standing at the counter, innocently peeling potatoes in the sink and John crowded up behind him and started – holy shit –   _nuzzling_ the sensitive spot under his ear where jaw turned into neck and neck traveled up into hairline and John was…God, John was _sniffing_ him. Breezing moist, feral currents of warmed air over him like some kind of over-sized wolf, or some big aggressive caveman, or maybe a weird and disturbingly hot combination of both.

 

And Matt could admit it, he froze. It was all he could do not to let the veggie peeler clatter in the sink and thoroughly give away the fact that about 85% of his cerebral processing capacity had just completely shorted out.

 

Yeah, it was _really_ all he could do, because he just ended up dropping the potato instead.

 

John chuckled then, the rich wave of sound running a shiver across the back of Matt’s shoulders, and then he laid his hand on Matt’s arm for a second before he left him alone to literally get a grip on the counter so he could allow his eyes to roll back and his knees to buckle like they were dying to.

 

 

SIX

 _we(do == false) { need ( !education ) }_

 

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003rewc/)

 

SEVEN

 _time waits for no man _   
  
   


Dammit, Warlock. Not that he didn't love his new screensaver and everything, but Matt was totally going to have to change his security wards. Again.  
 

 _  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/00003rfw/)   
_

 

  
 

EIGHT

 _guess who’s coming to dinner _

It started out as just some stupid kind of game of chicken. Matt didn’t mean to take it so far, he was just calling John’s bluff, really.   
  


Because sure, maybe the teasing was better than avoiding each other and being awkward, but part of the problem with McClane’s kitchen-kink thing was that Matt was usually holding something sharp, or handling something hot, whenever John did it. So this time, when all he had in his hand was a spoon to stir the pasta sauce with, Matt was ready. 

Enter McClane, right on cue. He swaggered into the kitchen like he owned the place – which, okay, never mind – whistling and absently tapping his big meaty thigh with a rolled-up section of the _Times_. He did his usual – looking around the kitchen, poking his nose into the fruit bowl, lifting the lid on the butter dish. Generally securing a perimeter.

Next, he would investigate. Check out what Matt was doing. Usually he asked some probing questions, like how exactly Matt planned to pull off this caper known as ‘dinner’ or the ETA on his alleged tuna casserole. 

And _then_ that’s when it would start. The crowding, the leaning, the heat and touch and crackling tension of McClane invading his space like he owned that too. Which…well, forget it. Matt’s pulse picked up a little. He could feel the hair on his arms and the back of his neck and thighs rising in anticipation. 

But McClane wasn’t doing it.

He was hanging out at the far end of the kitchen, leaning a hip against the counter and watching Matt at the stove. What was he waiting for, the opportune moment to strike his prey? When Matt was elbow-deep in something like oven mitts or hamburger meat and rendered largely helpless? Not today, Kojak.

Matt stirred the pot again, when the thick red liquid started to bubble, and turned the heat down to a simmer. He didn’t want it to stick. 

McClane hadn’t moved. Matt could feel the sultry weight of his gaze, and when he turned around to meet it, sure enough John was giving him the once-over for all it was worth. 

No fair. Matt was supposed to be the horny, desperate, out-of-control one with the inability to quit staring. Looked like it was time for some counter-tactics.

“What’s up?” Matt asked. “Want to taste my sauce?”

John’s features barely registered a response. But if you knew where to look, you could catch it. And Matt was well on his way to becoming a fully fledged McClane expert. The eyelids dropped nearly imperceptibly to about ‘hooded’ status, and his thick fingers tightened slightly on the roll of newsprint in his hand. 

“Sure.”

John put the paper down. He was going to play along. Sweet. Matt was up for it.

He tried not to lose his nerve as John stalked across the kitchen toward him at a pace that could only be described as _deliberate_ , and stood way too close to him. Waiting.

 

The spoon in Matt’s hand still had cooling sauce clinging to it. He could just offer it to McClane. Hand it over. And that would be that. But it wasn’t why John was here – so close Matt had to tip his head back to look him in the eye – and they both knew it. 

 

So he took two fingers and swiped them slowly through the residue on the spoon. He made a show of licking the sauce from the first finger; eyes shut, little humming noise, the whole nine yards.

Then Matt held out his other finger – the middle one – offering, and John didn’t even look at it. He just held Matt’s gaze steady, like a warning. His last chance to back out. Uh-uh. Matt was ready.

He was ready for it, yeah he was. Until _._ John grabbed his hand and then  both Matt’s forefingers were _in his mouth_ and everything, all his brain seemed to have room for, was that hot-wet-warm sucking. Slick tongue and sharp teeth, and Matt heard himself make a ridiculous sound in his throat. And he didn’t drop the spoon, he swore he didn’t, but it was gone somehow and he heard _something_ hit the floor. 

John heard it too, eyes snapping momentarily down to the floor then back up to Matt’s, but he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t stop what he was doing and pick it up. He didn’t pull away and laugh at Matt like last time. 

In fact, he took Matt’s fingers in _deeper_ , and Matt was pretty sure that was where he tripped over the edge and tumbled into blankness. He knew there was a reason not to do this, but he couldn’t think quite what, and his free hand went to McClane’s hip while the other started to pull, slowly, so that John would have to either give up his mouthful or follow Matt’s lead forward and down toward his own waiting mouth.

He got what he wanted. John snaked an arm around Matt’s back when their lips touched, drawing him up straighter and pressing him firmly against that bulky muscular frame. And the kiss wasn’t as mind-melting as the first time, all those days ago. No, it was _worse_. John wasn’t hesitating for a second this time, and Matt… Uh oh.

Matt put a hand up between them and pushed at John’s chest. They were touching _everywhere_ ; legs to hips to chest to mouth, and it was just too much. Too hot, too close, too intoxicating. 

But John wasn’t relenting. The arm around Matt’s waist tightened incrementally, and John’s other hand slid up his back and around the nape of his neck, holding him forcefully in position and sending heat racing up his spine. And it was bad, because all the tension and pent-up frustration of the past week was starting to gather and boil in places that weren’t likely to contain it too much longer.

Matt did what he could, and broke off the kiss, but all he could get out was a breathless “We sh–” because the second his mouth was free, John angled downward and started using it to do things to Matt’s neck that instantly eliminated what might have remained of his power of speech. 

Matt’s forehead dropped onto John’s shoulder in utter surrender. He’d been smoking again. Matt dimly registered the char of paper and tobacco in the heavy, sweet scent he was slowly coming to know as _home_. And that completely incongruous thought struck him right at the same moment he realized he was not the one in control of whether or not this happened any more.

He wasn't sure if his legs gave way or if it was just some involuntary instinctive movement that brought his pelvis firmly down against John's thigh but – oh, shit – it was all it took. Spine drawing tight, vision whiting out; complete system overload.

Matt didn’t even know if he made a noise or, worse, if John could _feel_ the spasms jolting through him, but John went still and gripped him tight until they subsided, leaving Matt panting and reeling with the surreal mixture of release and panic.

John cleared his throat. 

“Bit salty,” he gruffed against Matt’s hair. “But _I_ liked it.”

Oh. My God.

“Shit.” This time when Matt pushed, John let him draw back a little. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Yeah kid, I’m fine.” John seemed to find the question amusing. Somebody should really tell him some day it wasn’t actually funny to go around breaking the rules and tempting fate when his life was hanging in the balance. “…How are you?” he asked.

“God. I’m…” _Mortified. Pissed at you. Really, really good._ “Sticky,” Matt admitted. “Shit, McClane, you could have let me go.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

Har har. Matt shook his head. 

“John McClane, ladies and gentlemen! I keep telling you, you should take your act on the road. Seriously, though, that was embarrassing. Ugh, why didn’t you just ease up a little bit?”

“To be real honest with ya kid…because it was hot.” 

Oh Jesus. Matt could seriously just die. Right now, thanks. But he didn’t, so he just made some undignified noise that was half laugh, half snort, instead. 

“What’s the matter with you, huh?” John asked gently, bringing up a hand to comb his fingers through Matt’s apparently dishevelled hair. “I’m the one on lock-down here. You’re entitled.”

“Entitled?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. Been making it hard on you, I guess.”

Alright. Enough.

“And the double entendres are really helping, I must say.”

“What? _Entendre_? You’re putting things in my mouth, now.”

Oh, just. Wow.

And the worst part was, this should have theoretically helped relieve some of the tension. But it was just making everything weirder and a million times worse. Matt just spunked in his jeans like he was fourteen again and John thought it was ‘hot’? 

“Okay, you know, it’s ‘ _words_ in my mouth’. That one was a reach. And before you can say anything about _that_ , I’m going to go and change. Gross.” 

Matt wasn’t _trying_ to be prickly. It was just that as the oxygen started to circulate back to his brain, he couldn’t seem to think about anything except getting out of that kitchen. 

And he was happy for now to just put off thinking about what he would do when he had to come back. He put both his hands up on John’s biceps to try and disentangle himself. 

“Wait.” John’s grip on Matt’s hips tightened sharply.

“Just…hold on a minute.” John let him go once he was sure Matt had stopped trying to escape. “I had a reason for coming in here, before you jumped me.”

“Oh, _I_ jumped you?”

“’Taste my sauce?’ Come on kid, compared to that, I’ve been taking it easy on you.”

Yeah okay. Point: McClane. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Fuck, I’m sorry McClane, I didn’t mean for that to get so…and yeah, this was _definitely_ not what I had in mind, and – you’re okay right? Not dizzy? No freaky chest pains or weird heart palpitations? You’re breathing, so…”

“I said I’m fine, I – hey, HEY! ...Gimme a break here and shut up a second, huh Matt?” 

Matt did. 

“Listen,” John said, quieter. “I just wanted to tell ya we got reservations for dinner at 7 on Sunday. You’ve spent more than enough time cooking. So, my treat.”

“Oh. I…okay.” 

“Okay,” John repeated.

Totally not okay. 

John promised that he’d watch the stove and told him to go ‘clean up’ then, and Matt was pretty sure he stopped just short of calling him a ‘dirty boy’ or something equally punny and humiliating. But he didn’t seem to have a problem with giving Matt a swift slap on the ass to send him on his way. 

Matt didn’t even have the strength or focus to resent it. Even with the clarity slowly filtering back through the fog of lust, his mind was now completely preoccupied with a single, new thought.

Dinner. Sunday. Not okay at all. 

The current state of his boxers notwithstanding, this was the final frontier of awkward. Matt was in way over his head.

 

NINE

 _put a ribbon in your hair_

 

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003tt8k/)

 

 

 

 

TEN

 _you have the right to remain silent_

 

 

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003w12t/)

  

ELEVEN

 _if (count($problems) == 99) { $problems['bitch'] = false; }_

 

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/0003pk8b/)

 

 

TWELVE

  _the kid is alright_

 

  

It was worse than Matt had imagined. And that was saying something.

 

Matt could imagine a lot. 

 

Yeah, this was a date, no doubt about it. But it was more than that, Matt realized, after about half the evening passed, filled with John holding doors and pulling out chairs for him. It took a little while longer to figure out than maybe it should have; Matt had never really noticed before but he’d actually gotten quite used to John shepherding him around like this, from back when he’d had crutches to deal with everywhere they went.

 

But the final clue, had been the gift. It all made sense, really. John was old…er. It sort of followed that he’d be old-fashioned. Because Matt was sure, now, that this – the chivalry, the paying for dinner, the first dategift – wasn’t just a date.

 

It was _courtship_.

 

And it sucked. Did women actually like this kind of thing? Before he had realized what was happening, the whole formal-act had just seemed sort of stilted and stiff, and it made Matt that much more acutely aware of his own nerves and clumsiness.

 

Like when they left the house. John had kept the car door locked, so he had to open it for Matt. And Matt knew this one; he leaned over and flicked the lock button on John’s side, even though John could have just pressed the remote on the key chain. Was the whole damn night going to be just a big test?

 

Matt spent the entire car ride worrying about it. When he wasn’t worried about the uncomfortable silence, that is. He tried a couple times to make lame, halting conversation, but the way his voice kept catching and cracking like a tween’s put a stop to it. He gave up and focused on just trying to quit touching his hair and repeatedly checking his cuffs and buttons and belt and _his_ _fly_ , often enough to qualify as OCD.

 

There was nothing wrong with the restaurant, really, but getting seated was the weirdest part. Matt felt like he didn’t know where to stand, or what to do with his hands. First there were a couple doors for John to hold, and then he took Matt’s jacket, as if he needed help hanging it. He let Matt walk ahead with the hostess, and then he thanked her and pulled Matt’s chair out for him before she could get to it.

 

For a second, it was almost funny. John, sitting there, drumming his fingers restlessly on his napkin at this medium-high end trattoria; in his dark collared shirt and the pants he only dug out for things like press conferences and shaking hands with the Mayor.

 

They should have been at Carnegie Deli. Or maybe even Grimmaldi’s. If John ever insisted on subjecting him to another night like this again, Matt was going to suggest it.

 

And then, John had handed him the little blue gift bag. Matt wasn’t sure what to expect. A Bruce Springteen album, maybe? Or even Lynyrd Skynyrd? At least the bag was too small for John to have fit vinyl into it.

 

What he did find was a gigantic surprise.

 

“You use it to charge all those gadgets you’re always carting around,” John explained, as if Matt didn’t know what a charging platform did. “It’s solar. Or also…whatcha call it, U-BS.”

 

“Yeah.” Matt nodded, impressed. “Portable. Solar and USB.”

 

“Right,” said John, pointing a finger at him like he was glad Matt had caught on so quickly. “So next time we have to stop a fire sale, you won’t run out of juice for your Sit-Com thing.”

 

Huh. Matt was officially too sidetracked to correct John again, or explain that the PDA didn’t have anything to do with the satcoms, really. It didn’t seem appropriate right now, anyway. This was…really unexpected. And thoughtful. The fact that Matt probably wouldn’t be working outside very often didn’t even mean he wouldn’t use this.

 

“McClane, I…thank you. This is great, I love it.”

 

“Well, thank Lucy. She picked it out. She’s been wanting everybody to go _green_ lately.”

 

John shook his head when he said this, like he just didn’t know what those crazy college hippies would come up with next. But then John dropped his gaze, and if Matt hadn’t been looking closely, he would have missed the faraway look of fond pride. There were times Matt envied Lucy, just the tiniest bit.

 

So now Lucy knew about their date too. Or rather, she knew John was buying him gifts. Which meant she knew about the _courting_ thing. Stellar.

 

Matt had no idea what to do or say now. Double stellar. He already said thank you, so that was out.

 

“But, I mean…why did you – I feel like a jerk, I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

 

“You’re not,” John said. And for a second, Matt thought John was going to leave it at that.

 

“You’ve been putting up with a lot from me lately, doing a lot. You really stepped up when I was stuck on that couch for three days. And I see you, kid, you still favour that leg of yours – and I’ve had my share of rehab time. I know it’s not easy for you. Consider it…a token, you know?”

 

John didn’t elaborate as to a token of _what_ , and Matt was kind of okay with that. But still. He should say…

 

“That stuff I do…I don’t do it because it’s…I don’t know, some kind of favor, to be owed and repaid. I mean. You saved my life like a gazillion and one times, and I could do this for the rest of it, and still never be…” Nice. Try again, Farrell.

 

“I do it because I – because why would I _not_ help you out, man? It’s not like I have something better to do.” Whoa, whoa. Worse.

 

“I meant, what’s better than… Okay, look. I haven’t _had_ someone to do anything for in – well actually ever. So. I’m glad to.”

 

Right. That went well.

 

But then John said, as if Matt had made perfect sense, “So I’m glad to have you, too.”

 

And his eyes had that mischievous thing going on that he got when he knew something you didn’t. Like when he ran out of bullets and had to resort to throwing flaming cars, or when he was about to end your ass by doing the very last thing you’d expect, like shooting you by going through himself first. It was probably what anybody else would call a _twinkle_. Which meant that he probably knew that that wasn’t quite what Matt had meant… exactly.

But then again, somehow it _was_. Exactly. And given the way that look spread from his eyes into a true smile, Matt figured John knew that part too.

 

And Matt couldn’t help but find it ironic that the most awkward moment of all the monumentally awkward things that had happened between them this week could end up being just the thing they needed to make it all melt down and flow away into a happily shared silence that was anything but uncomfortable.   

 

Suddenly, this whole date thing didn’t seem like a bad idea at all. There were little candles all over the place, and there was quiet music, and the kind of food Matt never could have cooked them if his life depended on it. They even had a pretty waitress.

 

John held that flaming car twinkle in his eye the rest of the night, and Matt couldn’t seem to keep the smile off his face. What was left of their night out was pleasant and amiable and serene.

 

And it was too bad, really. Because now that the dam had broken and the ice had melted, and they could meet each other’s eyes again, all Matt really wanted from this perfect evening, was for John to hurry the hell up and get him the fuck home.

 

 

THIRTEEN  
 _no place like 127.0.0.1_

 

John thought it went pretty well, as these things go. Rough start, maybe, but between the bottle of red wine and the gizmo Lucy had helped John find for him, Matt was clearly at his ease by the end of the night. The constant stream of prattle barely even faltered when John ushered him through the front door and casually pointed out that Matt had been here about three months now, and had never seen the upstairs.

 

Matt still didn’t like stairs, and avoided them when he could, but he could manage when he had to, now. Besides, John was there to spot him, and he knew from experience that going up was easier than coming down, anyway. 

 

Matt bitched about it the whole way none the less, convinced that this was way more stairs than a compact little Brooklyn place like this should need. He even turned around half way to count – there were eighteen – but he made it up without any real trouble.

 

John figured they could start with a tour. And Matt did seem interested, especially in the bigger bathroom up here, with a bathtub in it, and even in small things like the color of the paint in the hallway.

 

John showed him the second bedroom, and Matt didn’t even look surprised when John mentioned that it had more space for all of his computer gear than the little den downstairs, if he wanted to bring his stuff up here once he was ready to tackle all eighteen of John’s stairs on a daily basis.

 

John didn’t bring up the question of whether Matt would still need to bring his own bed up here by then. Too early for that kind of talk. This was enough for now.

 

Matt just nodded his head, and tried to hide behind his hair the way he did whenever he blushed. He gave it up after a minute though, and looked John in the face to smile and thank him.

 

That only left the bedroom.

 

“This is it,” John told him. “It’s not much, but you know you can always make yourself at home.” He crossed the room to deposit his keys on the dresser.

 

“Hey, it’s more than I’ve got right now,” said Matt. “And it hasn’t been blown up by terrorists. Which, you know, I always appreciate.”

 

John turned from the dresser. Matt had wandered into the room, but he was still standing at the far end of it, engrossed in a picture hanging on the wall. And that was when the thought occurred that maybe Matt wasn’t interested in paint or bathtubs or more office space. Maybe all Matt was interested in, was stalling.

 

John made his way back across the room slowly. He scuffed his feet a little, and jingled the change in his pocket. Matt would be less likely to startle when John reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, if he could hear John coming up behind him first. But Matt didn’t jump at the touch, he just kept looking straight ahead.

 

“That’s Jack?” he asked. Matt was looking at a photograph of Lucy and her brother taken on the Staten Island Ferry.

 

“John Junior and Lucy McClane,” John said. “Eight years ago, now. But yeah, that’s him. Lucy tells me he’s ‘Jack Gennaro’ now.”

 

John took a step in closer to Matthew, sliding his hand up from his shoulder to the side of his neck. He rubbed his thumb over the short hairs curling under Matt’s ear. Matt closed his eyes under the caress. But, true to form, kid kept right on talking.

 

“Think I’ll ever get to meet him?”

 

“Dunno,” John said, honestly. “I hope so.”

 

“Me too,” Matt said. He opened his eyes and looked at John, and there were layers of meaning in the intelligent gaze that John didn’t have the time or inclination to untangle just now.

 

“I’m sorry, man,” Matt said. “Sounds tough.”

 

John nodded. It was what it was.

 

“You know,” John was just going to come right out and say it. “We don’t have to do this tonight, Matthew.”

 

“What?”

 

“This.” John rubbed Matt’s neck again to illustrate before he pulled his hand away and gestured around them. “You and me, the…bedroom. It’ll happen when you’re ready.”

 

“What?” Matt said again. But this time, John thought he might be the one who was missing something. Matt was starting to get that determined look he had, when he wanted something and John was being slow to catch on. Matt took a step closer, eliminating the rest of the distance separating them.

 

“You’re damn right it’ll happen when I’m ready.”

 

Matt got a handful of the front of John’s shirt and made a little fist.

 

“I didn’t go out on a _date_ with you, and climb up eighteen fucking stairs, then bring you all the way over here, and start talking about your _feelings_ ,” Matt had wrapped his other hand around the back of John’s head, and now he was starting to pull. “So that this could _not_ happen tonight. Yeah. Guess what?”

 

Matt had tipped upward too, and they were so close now that John could feel the movement of Matt’s lips against his own as he said these last few words.

 

“I’m ready.”

 

It was all John needed to hear.

 

Matt was still pulling at him, so John let him have it, crushing their mouths together a little harder than he’d ever done before. It was strange, and freeing, to be with someone who didn’t seem to be too leery of John’s strength. There were a lot of hands everywhere, and a push-me pull-you sort of thing happening that made his head swim, and maybe he drove forward a little too hard, because Matt made a squeaking noise, and John thought he tasted copper.

 

“Whoa,” John said, when he managed to pull away from Matt far enough to check him. “Okay?”

 

“What?” Matt looked confused, his pupils were already blown wide enough to make his dark eyes look like the irises had gone full black. “Yeah,” he said. Then he grabbed and tugged at John again.

 

“Wait.” John’s voice sounded strange, grating, a little too loud and deep against the quiet rustle of stiff Sunday clothing and the sweep of hands traveling over skin. “I hurt ya? You made a noise.”

 

“I…maybe? I don’t know, but it was good. Okay? It was a good noise.” Matt tried to kiss him again but John dodged one more time.

 

“You bleeding? Just lemme look.”

 

Matt seemed to be just fine. Aside from the fact that he was now staring at John like he was nuts.

 

“That would be you.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You tasted blood, right?” Matt asked him, quietly. He laid two fingers over John’s bottom lip, and then brought them away red. “That’s you. Sorry. I guess I bite?”

 

It wasn’t the first time, either. John just shook his head, and rubbed the wet off his lip with his thumb.

 

The interruption seemed to stun Matt into calming down a little. He stretched upward again, to put a gentle kiss of contrition on the offended lower lip. It was tentative and sweet.

 

And they couldn’t have any of that, now could they?

 

“So you said you’re ready?” Fair warning, John thought.

 

Still, Matt cursed in surprise when John got his hands under Matt’s ass and lifted. Told him he was fucking crazy; to watch out for his shoulder. But he wrapped his lanky little limbs around John and held on tight anyhow. Not that there was anything else for the kid to do.

 

John had to admit it twinged at first, and true, it was a strain making it across the room to get a knee up on the bed.

 

Okay so he was a little fucking crazy. But there were extenuating circumstances to consider, here. And Matt had shown he was ready. Maybe John sort of wanted to show he was ready too.

 

He wasn’t careful either, tumbling Matt onto the mattress, in fact he more or less tossed him. Matt grinned up at him when he landed, and got to work on his clothes. John crawled forward to lend a hand. He was nothing if not a helpful sort of guy.

 

With two weeks to work up to this, you’d think John would be ready, you would. But when it came down to it, there was so much about Matt that he just wasn’t prepared for.

 

Like how damn _pretty_ he’d look at dinner, with the eyes, and the hair – he’d gotten it cut, John noticed, cleaned himself up, and the result in the candle lit bistro John had chosen out of the phone book at random was quite effective.

 

Some guys were better looking than others, John had always known that, it only made sense. But he’d never actually _looked_ before, he’d always just assumed what made a man attractive was what a woman would notice. The stuff you took for granted that would make a male body different from a woman’s; broad shoulders and chiselled, squared-off jaw lines. Matt wasn’t anything like that.

 

He wasn’t pretty the way a girl was either; delicate and frilly and fine. There was just something…a softness maybe. A feeling of warmth and receptiveness – texture, like the liquid chocolate look his eyes got sometimes, or the silk of his hair – that just seemed to invite touch. Matt _glowed_ when the light hit him right, or he smiled a certain way, and tonight was no exception.

 

The waitress had even flirted with him, and Matt either ignored her because he thought John wouldn’t like it, or he was completely oblivious to his own charm. John sort of suspected it was the latter.

 

 And if he’d thought that was something, now that he’d taken the kid home and gotten him naked he literally had to stop and catch a breath.

 

Which of course made Matt think he was having a heart-attack and go into panic mode.

  

No, John wasn’t prepared for the little tattoo on the bottom of Matt’s hip bone, that almost had him finishing things before they got started – with his pants still on and biting the inside of his lip hard enough to bring the blood again.

 

He wasn’t prepared to be suddenly nervous. He wasn’t prepared for _Matt_ to be nervous – not with the way he’d been staring at John like an all-you-can-eat buffet the entire two weeks – so he was caught off guard when Matt looked up at him with eyes like saucers, and bolted upright to get John’s face between his hands.

 

Matt was all hands, everywhere, all of a sudden. Examining. Looking into John’s eyes, running his palms over his ribs and up around his back, all the while telling him to ‘breathe’. John didn’t want to waste time explaining that he hadn’t stopped breathing, he’d been _holding his breath_.

 

So he just grabbed Matt and pulled him flat against his chest.

 

“Stop,” he said in Matt’s ear. “Stop, I’m breathing.”

 

Matt was shaking. God, it made John wonder what the hell had happened to him after he’d lost consciousness on the night of the attack, to make Matt react like this.

 

He lost track of what else he said then, a lot of shushing and murmuring, and smoothing his hands over Matt’s back, until Matt gave a short little sigh.

 

“I’m fine, McClane. I’m not a baby,” he said, into John’s neck. “Jeez, _you_ grabbed _me_. I was just trying to hold you up in case you fell off the bed when you went down. You can let go now.”

 

But Matt was yards of heated, bare skin in his arms, and John didn’t see any reason to let him go. So, he let his voice go lower and rougher, and he told him as much.

  
Matt wasn’t shaking any more. That right there, was a _shiver_.

 

The upside to this second little interruption was that it was pretty effective in triggering John’s instinct to take charge of looking out for Matt first, which took care of his own nerves almost entirely.

 

Entirely that was, until things got clutch and Matt made deer-in-the-headlights eyes like he didn’t know what an orgasm even was – staring wildly at John like he’d never seen him before, whining and writhing. And when his little mewling sounds turned into curses, John knew he was close. He kept the pace even and shifted his thumb a little to catch the sensitive vein at the top of each stroke, and Matt gave him exactly what he wanted, gasping and spilling over his knuckles like a warm beer foaming over, and giving a little cry that sounded almost like pain.

 

And suddenly, their little escapade in the kitchen aside, John thought maybe Matt really _hadn’t_ done this before. And that was when he got seriously worried.

 

Matt was staring, wide-eyed, at him. He brought a hand up to grasp aimlessly at the back of John's neck, like he was touching him just to be sure he was real. In between panting breaths he gave a little incredulous laugh.

 

"Yeah," he said, "That went a little better this time."

 

Matt blinked himself out of the studying stare he was levelling at John. And apparently that was all he needed for recovery time, because he made a dive for John's belt and started to work it open.

 

 

FOURTEEN  
 _officer down_

 

 

 “Kid, you don’t have to...”

 

“If we keep telling each other that, nothing will ever happen.”

 

Besides, Matt wanted to. He did. He just hoped he could.

 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, he guessed, given the attitude and the swagger and the cowboy reputation, but John was fucking hung. Matt had always been told he had a big mouth, but this…

 

It was a learning experience, that was for sure. But Matt had the advantage of knowing what _he_ liked, so that’s what he did.

 

At some point, John started to move subtly, and make small groaning noises.

 

It was oddly gratifying. Matt couldn’t understand why so many guys were so phobic about this. Talk about absolute power. He just tried not to interrupt what he was doing by laughing, when he thought about the literal implications of having John McClane’s balls in the palm of your hand.

 

He was taken out of this reflection by an abrupt tug on his hair. Hey. OH! Right. The warning. John was ever the gentleman.

  
Matt was conflicted. He wanted to see, he wanted to taste…so he compromised.

 

After the first salt-bitter burst, Matt pulled away to tighten his fingers and flick his gaze between the sight of John throwing his bald head back in silent abandon, and the smooth, pearly ropes repeatedly painting the back of Matt’s hand.

 

After a minute or so, John stroked Matt’s hair and took hold of his wrist, gently. Matt realized he was still holding John’s dick and staring at him like an obsessive moron.

 

He looked away and settled back on the bed, wiping his hand on the sheets. He shut his eyes. Now was as awesome a time as any to be suddenly and randomly embarrassed.

 

He left them shut for a while, too, because he felt John stretch out beside him and start touching him again – gliding the backs of his knuckles over Matt’s skin, lingering in various places.

 

Some more than others.

 

It didn’t take long for Matt to notice John seemed to have developed a snap fascination with his tat. When he opened his eyes, John was staring at it. He didn’t seem to be able to stop stroking it, either; rough fingers skating endlessly over the thin skin spanning Matt’s hip bone, and bringing the blood creeping lazily back to the general region.

 

 [](http://pics.livejournal.com/persnickett/pic/00006bgz/)

 

“What is that, some kind of hacker cult symbol?”

 

“Well yeah, sort of,” Matt admitted. That got John’s attention back up at eye-level. His fingers mercifully stilled a moment. “You are part of the Rebel Alliance and a traitor!” Matt exclaimed.

 

“Okay,” Matt said after a moment of John looking blankly at him while he resumed prodding at Matt’s ink. “My James Earl Jones might be pretty bad, but I _knew_ that ‘more of a Star Wars Guy’ line was bullshit, man.”

 

“You got a permanent, _Star Wars_ – ”

 

 “Had to,” Matt interrupted, rolling onto his side under John’s hovering hand, so he could look him in the eye. “If I hadn’t forever declared myself rebel scum, then it would still just say ‘Darla’.”

 

McClane looked at him and gave a rare honest-to-god laugh. Showed teeth, even.

 

“Yeah? Darla. Well, thank Christ.”

 

“You’re telling me. Take some advice from a guy who knows, do not ever date a girl who makes you get branded before she’ll suck your dick. I’m just glad it was 5 letters and not, like, Stephanie or Esmeralda-Jean.”

 

McClane was still grinning like a jack-o-lantern.

 

“Nah, I mean…thank Christ somebody besides the tattoo guy has been down there before me. Was startin’ to worry that when I asked you if you ever did this before, you didn’t just mean with another guy.”

 

“Huh? Did what?” John was still idly tracing the spot on Matt’s hip, and it was starting to get over-stimulated and ticklish by now. “Oh, WHAT, no way, McClane. You thought I was a virgin? Like a _virgin_ virgin? God.”

 

“Shoulda seen your face, kid. You were staring at me like you didn’t know who I was.”

 

Matt just shook his head in bewilderment. This should have been a way bigger deal. Matt should have been offended, or worried about his performance, or maybe even outraged that John would make such a wild assumption.

 

But as it was, they were both way too focused on that one tiny inch of skin. Matt shifted his hips a little under the scrutiny, trying not to just give in and start outright fucking _squirming_ the way the majority of his nervous system was screaming at him to do.

 

He took a deep breath instead, trying to get back some semblance of coherence.

 

“ _My_  face? You were the one looking all intense! Come on man, do you remember what happened the last time you tried to jerk me off?  I thought you might die any second, that can make a guy nervous. Plus, you know the whole, gay virginity...” There was that word again, dammit. “Fuck, never mind.”

 

Shit, fuck, and dammit to fucking hell. Was John ever going to stop rubbing at that spot?

 

“Well...” Apparently not. “I didn’t. Die,” John clarified. “Still here. Think you can relax and stop biting my head off now?”

 

And. Honestly? No, no, and hell, fuck, no. Matt could not relax, not while John was still fucking _doing that._ Matt was going to snatch John’s hand and put it back where it belonged. Any second now.

 

“Darla huh? Guy did a pretty good cover job.”

 

John dragged his fingers over the super-sensitized area again, like he was testing if he could _feel_ the inked letters somewhere under the newer design. Oh, that was just mother-fucking _it._

 

“Uh…Uh-huh. Very fine workmanship.” Matt could barely get the words out now. They slurred a little like he’d been drinking. He canted his pelvis again, fractionally. “Really. Stunning detail. You should go in for closer investigation, Detective.”

 

John’s lips quirked up at the corner, and his gaze traveled back down to what his fingers were doing. Matt looked down too. The tormented skin on his hip was starting to blush red under the black of the ink and it was impossible to miss the obvious state John’s steady ministrations had him in.

 

“Jesus Christ.” John laughed again. The rare sound wasn’t as awesome when he was laughing at Matt’s dick, and not something stupid he’d said. “You really do have the body of a teenager.”

 

“ _Two weeks_ , McClane,” Matt defended his treasonous, over-eager junk, “Two weeks of this. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t have a heart attack myself. Do you have any idea what y…” and then Matt made a sound that was something like ‘ _whlaaa!’_   because McClane had grabbed him and yanked him sideways across the bed so fast he didn’t even see how it had happened.

 

But Matt didn’t care in the slightest, because it put John’s attention right where he wanted it. And then he was doing that nuzzling, scenting, caveman thing again; all hot breath and the jarring scratch of razor-stubble, and then all of that went blank because John _licked_  Matt’s tattoo. He laved the raised, irritated skin once, twice, and then, _then_ he fucking _blew_ on it.

 

Matt made the most embarrassing noise possibly ever made at the tickle of air on the raw, moistened patch of flesh.

 

“Huh,” Matt panted, as John continued to nose around, tasting and exploring everywhere except the bulls-eye. “McClane, I – uh, shit. I don’t know if you’re aware – oh, Jesus. I mean I know – uhhh, ha – you’re new to this – mghh – and they call it a blow job and all – oh, fucking goddamn! – but you’re not actually supposed to _blow_ … hey, OW!”

 

What the hell, had McClane just _bitten_ him? Was he getting back at him for the thing with his lip? Matt looked down. There was a bright red suction-bruise now adorning his other hip, creating a perfect symmetry with his tat.

 

“Since you’re into this kinky branding thing.”  John was looking entirely too pleased with himself. He tapped the new, tingling mark with a big blunt finger.

 

“God, McClane, possessive much? Who would’ve thought you’d have a tattoo fetish to match your kitchen fetish. You know, maybe next time, we should just do this on the counter. It’s win-win, I won’t even have to deal with the stairs.”

 

And maybe it wasn’t quite the joke Matt thought it was, because John pressed his mouth to Matt’s skin again and _growled_. Well _that_ was new, and frankly, a little frightening. But a lot hot. Matt caught a breath before he went on.

 

“You know I’m totally making you get one that says ‘the kid’ before I even consider putting ‘McClane’ anywhere permanent and painful on my body right?”

 

In answer, John wrapped his broad palm around Matt, and it worked just as well as his usual ‘shut the fuck up’.

 

“Kid, I think under the circumstances,” he said instead, voice low and thick, “you can probably call me John.”

 

Oh hell, Matt would call him sugar-nuts, or big poppa, or _Susan_ if it would get him to just _do something_.

 

“Matt.” Was all he could manage. And the correction came out choked and desperate sounding as it was. Fuck.

 

“Nice to meet ya.”

  
And any lame comeback Matt might have considered making never saw daylight, because John McClane, biggest cock tease the millennium had seen – or just John, or whatever, _anything_ he wanted to be called – closed his grip and opened his mouth and made up for two weeks of pure unrepentant torture tactics in about 93 seconds flat.

 

When Matt opened his eyes again, John was there, looming over him and staring into Matt’s face. Then he was running his hands and gaze all over him, everywhere, chasing away the aftershocks still lancing through him and looking him over hungrily. And if Matt had been worried John wouldn’t like blowing him, he now had all the evidence he needed to prove that _that_ had been a waste of perfectly good anxiety.

 

“Teenager, my ass,” Matt breathed, looking down between their bodies at exhibit A. “Aren’t old guys supposed to need more time to recupe?”

 

“Two weeks, Matthew.” Was all John said, smoothing Matt’s hair, before he came down over Matt and kissed him slow, the way he hadn’t before. And maybe Matt’s bell was still just good and rung from getting off for the second time in twenty minutes but, yeah, again, the taste wasn’t all that bad.

 

John eased himself down on top of Matt, huge and warm and hard. He avoided Matt’s bad leg, stretching out over his other side and slotting himself into the hollow of Matt’s hip that seemed to be his new favorite thing. Matt wrapped his body around all that huge, warm hardness as best he could and encouraged the slow, steady pace until John stiffened and broke off kissing his mouth to bury his grunts and ragged gasps against Matt’s neck.

 

And then John collapsed beside him, panting and flushed and more definitely alive than Matt had maybe ever seen him. 

 

 

FIFTEEN  
... _alone or in pairs_

 

 At least it was going to be the _shortest_ walk of shame Matt had ever made.

 

Which was good because it was made up almost entirely of stairs. Stairs which John promised to help Matt with, before he climbed out of bed so they could retrieve and zip and button their respective clothing in silent, slow, aftermath-y unison. And Matt didn’t really put up a protest, even when they got there and he realized, with a little mental fist-pump, that the help wasn’t strictly necessary any more.

 

His internal mini-celebration was cut short though, when they got into the hallway and Matt figured out just exactly what was going on. John had gone all courtship-formal again; with that stiff, perfect posture that emphasized the height difference. One guiding hand low down on Matt’s back although he _definitely_ didn’t need help navigating the flat surface of the hallway he walked just fine by himself every single day.

 

Luckily, the walk was short enough that Matt didn’t even have time to say anything about please please _please_ telling him John wasn’t _walking him to his door_ in the same freakin’ house. Before he could even finish thinking it, they were already there, and John was taking this bizarre little Happy Days cliché all the way, leaning his arm against the door jamb and getting in Matt’s space like an overzealous prom-date. Matt never had a prom date though, so he almost didn’t mind.

 

The part Matt definitely didn’t mind was that John obviously figured he totally had a goodnight kiss coming to him, and wasn’t the least bit shy about claiming what was clearly rightfully his. He was smiling, a sort of predatory half-smirk, and it made Matt smile back with this dumb shy highschool-sweetheart thing that was probably part of the reason for all of John’s ‘virgin’ crap. Seriously, what the hell was that all about?

 

He could feel warmth creeping its way up from his annoying button-down collar into his cheeks. But he didn’t have to worry about it long because John was cupping the back of Matt’s neck with one big, weighty hand and pulling Matt in for a kiss that lasted long enough to curl his toes and make him consider suggesting the kitchen counter option again.  

 

When they finally broke apart, John let out this heavy sigh and pressed his cheek to Matt’s hair like it was hard to stop touching him. If that’s what was going on, well, Matt could sympathize because...yeah. John did stop touching him though, and looked at him expectantly.

 

Matt laughed. Apparently they’d come to the part of this little script where Matt was supposed to say his lines. He just wished he had a prompter with cue cards hiding somewhere.

 

"Um, Thank you. Y’know, for dinner. And…everything." Heh heh.

 

That must have been at least partly right, because John smiled, and brushed a stray chunk of hair off his forehead.

 

“You looked great, tonight.”

 

Matt rolled his eyes and pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the doorway. He was totally going to have to work on training John to remember that he really wasn’t a woman.

 

He tossed his shoes in the corner and stretched languorously. McClane was still standing in the door, with a goofy, admiring look on his stone-cold badass face. If Matt _was_ a girl, he’d get all goopy right about now, but he was as red-blooded as the next guy and he knew better.

 

“Stop ogling my ass and get some sleep, dirty old man. You’ve had enough for one night.”

 

And Matt completely expected John to say something in McClane-speak, like ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough’ or maybe even ‘Yippie kai yay’. But instead he smiled so his eyes crinkled at the edges, drummed his fingers on the door frame and said a low, gravelled “Sleep tight,” then disappeared.

 

And to his utter horror, Matt’s stomach suffered a sudden and crippling butterfly infestation. Shit. Maybe he was just a big girl.

 

Speaking of girls, Matt’s phone buzzed insistently in his jacket pocket, announcing a new text message. He hardly needed to check. Sure enough, when he lit the little screen it read _New Message: Gennaro_. But what did surprise him was the single, demanding word awaiting him when he clicked 'open'.

 

The same word he saw when he flipped on his monitor and found a waiting IM from WAR10CK.

 

DETAILS!

 

Matt yawned and stretched out decadently on his bed. It had been two weeks. Waiting a few more hours wouldn’t kill them.

 

His narrow single mattress suddenly seemed a lot smaller and colder than it had before tonight, but even that couldn’t bother him right now. It was like a whole new world had opened up for him.

 

A world with an upstairs, and a kitchen that was about to stop being a torture chamber and get a whole lot friendlier. One where he could get deeply and eagerly into John McClane’s – or just _John’s_ – pants, and nobody ended up in a hospital.

 

And plus, for once in his life, Matt was pretty sure he was going to sleep like a baby.

 

 

 _(this is so totally not the)_  
END

 

 

 

______________

 - 'Snick , August 2010

 


End file.
